


Dodge, Parry

by BrighteyedJill



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Gen, Self-Sacrifice, Whumptober 2020, Witcher uncle feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:09:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27049231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrighteyedJill/pseuds/BrighteyedJill
Summary: When a morning of training at Kaer Morhen is interrupted, Lambert is the only thing standing between Ciri and what's coming.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 67





	Dodge, Parry

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Whumptober Day 16: Shoot the hostage.Thanks to locktea and potatertot for beta assistance!

“Parry, Ciri!” Lambert shouted. “Do you have ears, or are those just decorative? What did I say?”

“After a dodge, always parry,” Ciri said, rolling her eyes.

“Always.” Lambert raised the hardened wooden monstrosity that was standing in for a sword. “Try it again.”

Lambert lunged towards her at about half the speed he was capable of moving. Ciri dodged, quick as a snake, and this time brought her wooden blade up to deflect the next blow. 

“There you have it. Not a total--” Lambert broke off as his medallion vibrated alarmingly. He whirled around, looking for the danger, but saw nothing.

“Lambert?” Ciri asked. She stayed in her fighting stance, bless her, as if she was unsure if this was some test of her defences. So, she _had_ been listening during these sessions.

“Stay,” Lambert snapped, and he didn’t look back to see if the kid obeyed. He scaled the worn stone steps to the top of the wall three at a time, his medallion vibrating the whole way. The sounds of movement rose from nearby, the jumbled cacophony of many people. And when he peeked over the top of the wall, he saw what he’d expected to, what the Wolves have feared since the pogrom: men. Rank upon rank of soldiers advancing out of a magical portal just at the edge of the keep’s ancient magical defenses. Their armor was a dull black, and the first rank carried a banner depicting a golden sun. 

Lambert flew back down the stairs, sparing a glance for the gate, which was barred. It wouldn’t hold them for long, not with mages at their disposal. There was no time. Vesemir, Coën and Eskel were off hunting. They’d left just this morning with Eskel saying, “Be in a better mood when we get back, all right?” They’d be too far to hear… whatever this was. That just left Geralt.

“Listen, witcher-girl.” Lambert skidded to a stop in front of Ciri. “You go find Geralt, and tell him to get you out the back way. Tell him to do what I fucking say for once. You need to get as far away as you can.”

“But, Lambert, I can fight,” Ciri said, tightening her grip on her wooden sword. “If--”

“Go. If you come back, I’ll whip you.” Lambert snatched the sword out of her hand and threw it on the ground while she watched, wide-eyed at the breach of the most fundamental of practice field rules. “You know how to run, I know you do. NOW.” He shoved her, not hard enough to put her on her ass, just enough to shock her out of her frozen state.

Ciri caught herself, gave him a curt nod, then turned and ran into the keep. 

Lambert watched for a moment, to be sure she wouldn’t turn back, then sprinted towards the open door to the stables. He waited until he heard the gates shatter under a blast of magical energy, exploding in a hail of splinters. He counted to three, rushed back out into the courtyard, saw the first soldiers charging in, then turned and called back through the door, “Stay still and be quiet!”

Lambert stood his ground and let the soldiers come to him. Witchers had been made to fight monsters, not groups of men, but that didn’t mean Lambert couldn’t make do. He knocked down the first swath of approaching men with Aard, and cursed his luck that he didn’t have bombs on him. As a crossbow bolt thudded into his belly, he remembered he didn’t have proper swords or armor, not for an easy morning of training Ciri. He dodged the swing of a sword and slammed the edge of his practice blade into the unfortunate swordsman’s head hard enough to break his skull. Dagger from his boot to hamstring the next soldier. Igni to light up a line of approaching men and send them screaming. Hand to hand with the next three armed and armored soldiers. His wooden practice blade broke as he used it to parry an overhand blow. Fuck, an elixir would be nice right about now. Or a fucking sword. Vesemir was never going to let him hear the end of this. Lambert caught sight of a flight of arrows incoming, and cast Quen. He dismissed it almost immediately after the light rain of arrows, however. Lambert didn’t have the energy to waste on defense. He needed to kill some more of these bastards. 

Something hit Lambert in the back of the head, hard. He swayed, but managed to keep hold of the half-length splintered mess serving as a sword. That was good. He could still fight if he had his sword. A crossbow bolt slammed into the back of his knee, and his leg buckled. That wasn’t ideal, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t still fight. The weight of a heavily armored body bore him to the ground, and then another.

"Keep the witcher alive!” someone yelled from behind the soldiers who were piling onto Lambert. 

“Fuck that,” Lambert growled, though he couldn’t move much under the press of bodies, and cast Igni in that direction. It brought some satisfying screams. But Lambert felt the strain as he channeled energy into the sign; too much magic too fast. And he was losing blood. Lots of it. Someone wrenched his wrist back, breaking the bones and probably a couple fingers. Lambert screamed wordless rage as he was immobilized. 

“Search in there!” one of the officers shouted, and Lambert heard heavy footsteps running into the stables.

Lambert pressed his face into the cold cobblestones of the courtyard and breathed shallowly through the pain. It had been a while since he’d taken this many wounds in a battle. He’d forgotten how unpleasant it was. But every minute these assholes were occupied searching here was another minute Geralt had to get Ciri away. The passages deep beneath the keep were a maze. Geralt would have her out and halfway across the valley before these incompetents realized they'd gone. Geralt had always been a lucky bastard. He and Ciri would escape. 

“Nothing, sir,” someone shouted.

“Keep looking!”

Lambert felt cold metal cuffs being affixed to his wrists, and didn’t cry out as the broken bones were jostled. Just for fun, he tried to form Aard, but nothing happened. Dimeritium, then. Just perfect. They yanked Lambert up onto his knees, with a soldier on each side holding onto his shoulders. The crossbow bolt in his belly had broken off at some point, but Lambert could still see the jagged end of the bolt protruding. He should pull it out. Didn’t want the wound to start healing around it. 

“Cirilla, Princess of Cintra! Come out and present yourself,” shouted an officer in a stupid-looking helmet with wings on it. Fuck-all for practically, but hey, it must make the guy feel real special.

"She's not gonna do that,” Lambert said hoarsely. The helmet guy turned to glare at him. “You ever play hide and seek in a castle, asshole? Kids know how to stay hidden.” He smiled wide, showing bloody teeth. “But please, keep talking. I’m really interested to hear this speech you’ve prepared.” 

A murmur went through the crowd as a man in fancier armor and a gaudy gold necklace strode into the courtyard. He cast a critical eye over the soldiers, who seemed to stand taller under his attention. Then he looked at Lambert, and his eyes narrowed "Who is this?”

"Answer the Imperator!” the soldier on Lambert’s right barked, and kicked him in the side. 

Lambert bit back the grunt of pain that threatened to escape. Imperator? What the fuck was the Emperor of Nilfgaard doing here? He decided not to point out that the question hadn’t really been directed at him, and glanced up at the man. "Just a humble witcher, at your service." 

“They say a Witcher took her away from Cintra," the winged helmet guy said, stepping closer. The emperor looked physically pained.

"That's us, kidnapping children, corrupting the youth,” Lambert said cheerfully. The conversation was keeping his mind off the bleeding. “I’m a fucking monster, that’s for sure."

"Not this witcher,” the emperor said. “Geralt of Rivia. Where is he?"

"I could be Geralt.” Lambert lifted his chin and struck the most Geralt-like pose he could manage in his current position. “You didn't ask."

“Do not trifle with me.” The emperor’s tone was chillingly casual. This was not a man who needed to raise his voice to make a threat. “I will have Cirilla.”

“Here’s some advice,” Lambert said. It was getting kind of difficult to really nail the jaunty tone he was going for with pain screaming at him the way it was. “Get another kid. Lots of war orphans around these days. Plenty to choose from.”

The man cut his eyes towards one of the soldiers standing next to Lambert, who backhanded him with an armored glove. Lambert turned with the blow, then licked blood off his split lip. Ciri had shaken off blows harder than that from the pendulum. And these idiots could hit Lambert as much as they liked if it kept the attention of these Nilfgaardians here and not on searching for ways out of the keep.

The emperor stepped towards Lambert and cocked his head slightly. "Witchers are loyal creatures. I wonder if you may be of use to us yet." He nodded curtly and the soldier to Lambert’s left pressed a blade to Lambert's throat.

The emperor turned towards the walls of the main keep, and raised his voice to address the empty windows staring down at him. “If you do not produce the princess immediately, this one will die.”

 _Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it._ Lambert pleaded in his mind. Geralt and Ciri shouldn’t even be within earshot, if Ciri had done as Lambert had ordered. But Ciri could be willful. Geralt, too. With every second that ticked by, however, the possibility that someone might answer dimmed. 

Lambert forced out a chuckle that turned into a wet cough, and he had to stop to spit out blood. Then he said, “I told you, you picked lousy bait. No one gives a shit about one witcher more or less.”

The silence stretched. Lambert’s relief grew, but also something like disappointment, as he realized that Geralt must have gotten away with Ciri, and not acted like a too-noble idiot for once. That was good. It was what Lambert wanted. He should be happy. There was no one else here to help him. 

It would have been fair, would have been fucking justice, if the wraiths of all the kids killed here, the ones who died in the sacking and the ones the witchers had killed in the Trials, rose up to help. Do something to save one kid, one kid who would have a chance to grow up and not be a freak, and make all these assholes drop dead. But there was no fucking justice in the world, and the only thing standing between Ciri and whatever-the-fuck the Nilfgaardians wanted was Lambert. 

“I suppose you’re right.” The emperor actually looked a bit disappointed. “And in that case, we have no use for you. Kill him.”

Lambert looked at the small wooden practice sword that lay on the ground where it had fallen, the one he’d carved and balanced for Ciri’s hand. Then he closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> For more squeeing about The Witcher and bitching about writing, come find me on Tumblr: [brighteyedjill](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/brighteyedjill)


End file.
